


like a chain reaction (i feel it happening)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 09:16:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3972469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma is generally inclined towards optimism, but she must admit that things aren’t looking good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like a chain reaction (i feel it happening)

**Author's Note:**

> This is so much longer than I meant for it to be, and I'm not totally happy with it. But it is my baby and I love it very much, despite its flaws. So I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Title from M.O.'s _On Ya_. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Jemma is generally inclined towards optimism, but she must admit that things aren’t looking good.

It seemed a good idea at the time, leaving Trip and May at the safehouse to protect the Gifted child they rescued this morning. Strategically, it made sense; the extremists who kept Sati captive for goodness knows how long were misusing her powers terribly, and of course they want her back so they can continue to do so. It was only logical to leave Trip and May at the safehouse for Sati’s protection while the rest of them worked on clean-up—and to leave Fitz, whom Sati latched on to as the only person not to fear, for her comfort.

Somehow, though, it never occurred to Jemma that, in lieu of the safehouse—which of course they don’t know the location of—the extremists might come after the Bus. She suspects that it _did_ occur to Coulson, but even he was caught by surprise by the sheer _number_ of enemy agents. Without Trip and May, they really never stood a chance.

Which leads them to their current circumstances: being held captive on their own plane by a veritable army of ruthless, remorseless men who are threatening to do any number of highly unpleasant things if Sati is not returned to them.

Sati is an innocent child. Naturally, they will not be handing her over for _anything_. And though the moral high ground is nice, she’d really rather not die on it.

“I’ll give you one last chance, Agent Simmons,” the extremists’ leader says. “Tell me what I want to know, or I’m gonna have to get violent.”

“You’ve _already_ gotten violent,” she reminds him impatiently. She has no idea what possesses her to do so—certainly it would be better _not_ to antagonize him—but the words, once spoken, are impossible to take back.

“True,” the man admits, and backhands her almost casually.

_Almost_. There’s enough force behind the blow that she might have been knocked down, were it not for the very large—and very rough, she’s certain to have some nasty bruising on her arms if she survives this—man holding her in place. As it is, it sets her ears to ringing and her entire face to throbbing.

Skye—currently tied to one of the lounge’s recliners, as is Coulson—makes several loud and detailed threats against the leader’s person. Coulson doesn’t react, but then, it’s possible he doesn’t actually see the blow. The extremists shot Jemma with a tranquilizer dart when they first stormed the Bus, but apparently Coulson was afforded no such courtesy; there’s a cut in desperate need of stitching on his forehead, and it’s still dripping blood into his eyes.

“Let me be more specific, then,” the man says, ignoring Skye’s shouting. “If you don’t tell me what I want to know…” He motions to one of the underlings standing behind Skye and Coulson, and the man steps forward. “Tommy over there is gonna start removing appendages. How good of a hacker do you think your friend Skye will be without fingers?”

Oh, dear. It’s far from the first—or even worst—threat that this man has made since invading the Bus, but as ‘Tommy’ has drawn a knife, Jemma gets the feeling that they’ve moved past the stage of idle threats.

This is not good.

She’s aware enough of her own limits to know that there’s no possible way she can simply stand by and watch Skye and Coulson be tortured. Yet she can’t give up Sati’s location, either.

There’s really only one thing for it.

“Sir,” she says, without looking away from the leader. “On a scale of one to ten, exactly how dire would you rate this situation?”

There’s a moment of incredulous silence before Coulson speaks. “Probably an eight.”

“Eight?” Skye demands. “Really? He just threatened to cut off my _fingers_! How is this not at least a nine?”

Coulson draws in a breath as though he actually intends to list all the ways this could be worse (although, knowing him, they’ll all be humorous), and Jemma hurriedly cuts in, because she didn’t mean this as a diversion but an honest question.

“So, fairly dire,” she says.

“Yeah,” he agrees wryly. “I’d say so.”

She sighs. “Very well. I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but…”

“Good,” the man in charge (he’s yet to introduce himself, which is honestly just as well) says, apparently misreading her resignation. “I knew a smart girl like you would see reason.”

She takes a breath to steady herself, and then another. She is _not_ looking forward to this.

“Despite everything,” she says, meeting the man’s eyes evenly, “I am truly, sincerely sorry for what’s about to happen to you.”

“Oh, really?” the man laughs. “And what’s gonna happen to me?”

She ignores him, closing her eyes and focusing her attention inwards. There’s a little something, a cord wrapped around her…spirit? Soul? Some metaphorical idea of her sense of being, in any case. It’s annoyingly imprecise. The point is, there is a cord, and after taking one last moment to steel herself, she gives it a sharp mental _tug_.

Sudden silence blankets the Bus. The hum of the air conditioner stops, as do the idling engines. The air grows thin, and then very, very cold—cold enough that Jemma’s next breath stings at her lungs.

“What the fuck is going on here?” the man holding her asks, nails digging into her arms. She winces.

“Funny. That was going to be my question.”

Jemma is expecting the voice, but she’s the only one. There’s varied shouting from the extremists as they all reach for their weapons—the man holding her included. He releases her to go for his gun, and without his support she falls to her knees, suddenly light-headed.

She takes a moment to recover and then, once she’s sure she can move without being physically ill, looks up, steeling herself for what she’s about to see.

What she sees, for the moment, is blessedly non-violent.

Everyone on the Bus is still, frozen in tableau like a photograph: the extremists with their guns half-drawn and mouths left open, Skye’s eyes wide in shock, and Coulson in the process of escaping his bonds.

Jemma is the only one on the Bus left in motion…save, of course, for the one who froze them in the first place.

A pair of jean-clad legs enter her field of vision, and she wages a brief internal war between throwing herself at them to cling like a child and running as far and as fast as she can. She doesn’t get the chance to do either.

“Are you hurt?”

The voice is as familiar to her as her own, despite how long it’s been since last she heard it. It wraps around her and seeps into her bones, low and deep and comforting, and knowing that it’s deliberate—a conscious application of his power—does nothing to lessen the effect.

The danger is far from over, but some of the cold fear in her fades nonetheless as she looks up at Grant.

(And he will always be Grant to her, even though she’s known for ages that it isn’t his name—that he has a whole host of other, legitimate names. She can’t—or won’t—wrap her head around those names and the meaning behind them. It’s easier simply to think of him as Grant, as the handsome and charming older man who first swept her off her feet.)

“Not badly,” she says. “Just mildly bruised.”

His eyes, already dark with anger, darken even further. He offers her his hand and, after the briefest hesitation, she accepts it and lets him pull her to her feet. Her whole body hums from the simple contact, nerves buzzing in a way unfortunately reminiscent of the Chitauri virus.

(Or rather, the Chitauri virus was reminiscent of this—a sensation she was familiar with long before she learnt the word _Chitauri_.)

“Bruised is bad enough,” Grant says.

She swallows.

In the last six years, there have been times she thought she was perhaps exaggerating her memory of him. Surely Grant couldn’t _really_ be that beautiful, that powerful—surely his undeniable effect on her wasn’t truly _that_ strong. Laying eyes on him once more, she must admit that she was wrong. In fact, it’s possible that she was in some measure of denial.

He’s still gorgeous—tall and dark and handsome, the most attractive person she’s ever seen—and the sheer _presence_ of him thrums in her chest. Something deep within her, some buried instinct, urges her to fall at his feet and worship him. She ignores it with the ease of long practice, but the temptation is there.

“Thank you for coming, Grant,” she says. She keeps her voice hushed; something about the eerie stillness of the Bus lends itself to whispers.

He smiles slightly—her persistence in using that name amuses him, she knows—but his eyes remain dark as they move over her face. After a moment, he lifts the hand not holding hers and tips her chin up even as he bends to kiss her.

Like plunging into a pool on a hot day, cool relief sweeps over her the moment his lips meet hers. The throbbing in her cheek, the soreness in her arms, and even the lingering headache from the tranquilizer all disappear. A little more of her fear disappears with them.

The kiss is both chaste and brief; it ends nearly as soon as the pain does, and Grant steps back from her, letting his hand fall away from her chin. The other remains firmly clasped in hers, however, as he turns to regard the frozen extremists.

“These are the men who hurt you,” he says—doesn’t ask. Not that that’s surprising; it’s not as though it’s difficult to deduce that the numerous heavily armed men are more likely to have harmed her than the two people tied to chairs. “What did they threaten?”

It seems an odd question. “I’m sorry?”

“You’ve been avoiding me for the past six years,” he reminds her. He’s not looking at her; instead, he’s examining the Bus’ cabin, sharp eyes taking in every detail. “You swore you’d never speak to me again. And yet here I am.”

His tone is light, but she can hear the displeasure underneath it—the barest echo of his fury, that day, when she told him she wanted nothing to do with him. She barely suppresses a shudder.

“If you called on me,” he continues, “You must have been terrified. A few bruises—however unforgiveable—don’t warrant that level of fear. So tell me, sweetheart.” He looks down at her, searching her face. “What did they threaten you with?”

She hesitates. She knows that by calling Grant here, she’s doomed the extremists to worse than death. Violence is in his nature, and he’s never been willing to forgive a slight against her. Still, things can always get worse, and if Grant knew even half of the torments the extremists threatened her with before moving on to threatening Skye, things would get very bad indeed.

There’s a reason she’s gone six years without making contact—six years pretending he didn’t exist at all, even when she was lonely or frightened or dying of terrifying alien diseases.

“Not me,” she says, finally. “That is, they did threaten me, but that’s not why I called for you.” It’s a wonderfully subtle change of subject that also has the benefit of being completely true. “They threatened my team. They were going to mutilate Skye.”

His eyes track her gesture towards the men behind Coulson and Skye’s chairs, and he frowns.

“Of course,” he says. “I should have guessed.” He lifts his free hand and brushes his fingers over her cheek, where she would undoubtedly be bruising if not for the healing power he shared with his kiss. “You take too little care with yourself, Jemma.”

“Or perhaps you take too much,” she counters. She glances at the extremists’ leader, whose face is frozen in—it must be said—an incredibly unflattering expression. He was in the midst of shouting orders, she thinks, when Grant stopped time. “What are you going to do them?”

“They hurt you,” he says, voice dark. “What do you _think_ I’m going to do?”

“Something excessively and unnecessarily violent,” she says, making no effort to keep the disapproval from her voice. “As always.”

He laughs lowly. “Still squeamish, then, sweetheart?”

“If that’s what you want to call it.”

He tsks under his breath and uses his hold on her hand to tug her into his arms. She knows that she should shove him away—press the issue—but instead, she melts into his embrace. Over the course of their acquaintance she has loved and feared him in equal measure, but he is warm and familiar and this is only the most recent in a string of missions gone awry. In his arms, her fear is a quiet thing, barely present at all.

She had such, such good reason to avoid him for all this time. That doesn’t change the fact that she’s missed him terribly. So she’ll accept this comfort for as long as it lasts—and she knows it won’t be long.

Sure enough, it’s only a moment before he ruins it.

“You had to know I’d punish them,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her hair. Her heart clenches. “But you called for me anyway.”

“They were going to hurt Skye,” she reminds him, and he sighs.

“Yeah, you mentioned.” He steps back a touch, putting a bit of distance between them, but holds her by the shoulders to prevent her from following suit. “And if they hadn’t threatened her, would you have refused to call me?”

She hesitates, carefully avoiding his gaze.

“Jemma.” He gives her a firm shake, and her eyes fly to his; whatever he reads in them makes him scowl. “You would’ve let them hurt you before calling for me.”

There’s no point in denying it; he clearly knows the answer already. “Yes. I would have.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw, and for a moment, she thinks he’s going to shout. Then his face softens and he releases her shoulders, sliding his hands down her arms to lace his fingers with hers. It’s an easy touch, casually possessive, and despite the circumstances, heat curls low in her abdomen.

He has that effect on her.

“Guess I’ve only got myself to blame for that,” he says, rueful. He lifts their clasped hands, examining her knuckles like he can see every second of the last few hours written in her skin, and then glances at her. “Not going to ask for clemency?”

Fear creeps back up Jemma’s spine, and she shakes her head mutely. She’s always been a quick study; she knows that asking clemency would be useless. She learned that lesson well—what happened six years ago still visits her in nightmares, far more frequently than even her fall from the cargo bay.

“Smart girl,” he says, a touch of amusement in his voice. But his face is serious as he returns to studying her hands. “They’re going to suffer, Jemma. There’s nothing you can do to stop that.”

She swallows, feeling ill. These are not good men—what they did to Sati and, worse, what they forced her to do, is another thing likely to visit her in her nightmares—but that doesn’t mean they deserve the sort of agony Grant will rain upon them. _No one_ deserves that.

“I know.”

“Still,” he muses. He presses a kiss to the back of her left hand. “There’s no need for you to see it.”

She frowns, confused. “What?”

Instead of answering, he glances at the extremists—first the leader and the one who was restraining her, and then the ones grouped around Skye and Coulson. Between one blink and the next, all of them vanish; at the same time, the air warms, and the eerie silence surrounding them ends.

“What the _hell_!” Skye’s voice cracks. “What just happened?!”

Jemma sways on her feet, made dizzy again by the shock of time resuming its normal flow, and Grant releases her hands in favor of steadying her by the shoulders. His expression is tender as he looks down at her, but there’s a touch of smugness in the curve of his smile.

“You felt that,” he observes. “You’re still affected by my acts of power.”

Uncomfortable, she looks away from him to find that Coulson has escaped his bonds and is watching them warily.

“Agent Simmons,” he says. “Are you all right?”

“Fine, sir,” she assures him. “Just a touch light-headed. It will pass.” She eyes him, concerned; the cut on his forehead is still bleeding, and he’s very pale. “Are _you_ all right?”

“Oh, fine,” he says, as though it’s nothing. “I’ve survived worse than a little blood loss, as you know. Who’s your friend?”

“And where did the bad guys go?” Skye asks. “I mean, not that I’m complaining about keeping my fingers, but…that was weird, right? They’re just _gone_.”

“I took care of them,” Grant says casually, turning to face Coulson and Skye. “You’re welcome.”

“When you say _took care of_ …” Coulson trails off.

“You won’t be seeing them again.”

“Okay, it’s not that I don’t appreciate that,” Coulson says earnestly. “It’s just that I’m gonna need a little more detail.”

“I’d be happy to provide it,” Grant says, “But Jemma gets so squeamish about torture, and I’d rather not upset her.”

Coulson’s eyebrows go up, and Jemma grimaces. The fact that Grant claimed responsibility for the sudden disappearance of the extremists means that Coulson has likely already drawn the (incorrect) conclusion that Grant is a Gifted, and the mention of torture will not be a comfort to him. She’s certain that this conversation is about to go in very dangerous directions, and in the meantime, she’s still concerned about Coulson’s blood loss.

“Sir,” she says. “I really think I should take a look at that cut.”

“It’s fine, Simmons,” Coulson dismisses. “Head wounds bleed a lot.”

“I’m aware,” she says patiently. “But—”

She’s interrupted by Grant, who sighs and flicks his fingers at Coulson. The tension in the room rackets up at _least_ three notches as the cut heals over before their very eyes. Coulson blinks as he presses his fingers experimentally against the newly healed skin, but otherwise maintains his poker face admirably.

“So I take it you’re a powered individual.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Grant says, amused.

“But not how you would,” Coulson surmises, eyes sharp. “What do you call yourself?”

“Jemma calls me Grant,” he says, side-stepping the question.

“Because that’s how you introduced yourself,” she says, and takes a small step away from him. The movement draws his gaze to her, but he makes no attempt to stop her, so she continues over to Skye and kneels before her, examining the ropes binding her.

“True,” he admits. “But it’s not actually my name.”

“And what is your name?” Coulson asks. He’s wearing what Trip calls his harmless-government-stooge face, and Jemma focuses on untying Skye to keep from telling him that it’s useless. Grant won’t be fooled.

“Oh, I’ve got a ton of them,” Grant says. “Hades, Ares, Moros…”

Skye jerks a little in her seat, and when Jemma glances up at her, she’s met with wide, incredulous eyes.

“You’re claiming to be a god?” Coulson asks placidly.

“Not claiming,” Grant corrects. “ _Am_ a god.”

“Okaaaay,” Skye draws out. “Um, not like the whole disappearing bad guys and instant healing tricks weren’t cool, but I’m a high school dropout and even _I_ know that Hades and Ares were two different gods.”

Jemma risks a glance at Grant and is relieved to find him smiling. He’s so unpredictable, sometimes; she never knows whether being questioned will amuse or annoy him. (By people other than her, that is; for whatever reason, he delights in her questions.)

“Mm,” he says. “To the Greeks—and the Romans, when they adopted the myths—that’s true.” He saunters a little closer, hands in his pockets, and Jemma returns her attention to the ropes around Skye’s ankles. “The Greeks liked their gods to be fallible—flawed. Mostly human, with just a little bit of extra power. So they diversified us, so to speak. Took the powers—the domains—of one god and spread them among many.”

“Really,” Coulson says slowly.

“Death and war are inextricably linked,” Grant says. “You look like the kind of man who knows that first hand. War and death and vengeance and sorrow—even relief. Does it really make sense to have a separate deity for each? No emotion, no event, occurs in isolation. The Greeks had a whole pantheon, so many gods that your historians don’t even know all of them. In reality, there were only six of us.”

“Were?” Skye asks, as Jemma unties the last rope. “As in, not anymore?”

“It’s been a long time since Greece,” he says, evasive. It’s not the only thing he’s being evasive about; she knows, from previous discussion, that he didn’t get his start in Ancient Greece—that he’s even older than that.

But she’s used to keeping his secrets. She says nothing.

“Well,” Coulson says. “I’ll admit that it’s not the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“You believe him?” Skye asks. She doesn’t sound derisive, simply curious, and Jemma thinks that she’s probably already convinced.

“The Norse gods are real,” Coulson shrugs. “Why not the Greek?”

Skye nods thoughtfully. “Fair.” She looks down at Jemma. “What about you? Are you secretly a goddess? You can tell us if you’re a secret goddess.” She glances at Grant. “She’s totally a secret goddess, right?”

“No, Skye,” Jemma says patiently. “I’m not a goddess. I am a perfectly ordinary human being. Mortal, if you like.”

“There’s nothing ordinary about you,” Grant disagrees, and she flushes at the clear affection in his tone. “But mortal I’ll give you.”

“Glad we’ve got that settled,” Coulson says. “Now, back to the extremists.”

“They’ll end up in Tartarus eventually,” Grant says. He’s come to a stop next to the chest of drawers along the wall, and he leans against it as he speaks. “A few centuries or so of torment will show them the error of their ways.”

“And then you’ll let them go?” Coulson asks wryly.

Grant laughs shortly. “No.”

“Yeah, I was afraid you were gonna say that,” Coulson sighs. He folds his hands in front of him and gives Grant a measuring look. “And before that?”

“Before what?”

“You said that they’ll end up in Tartarus _eventually_ ,” he clarifies. “Where will they be before that?”

“Ah.” Grant smiles. “Before that, I’ll be giving them some…personal attention.”

Jemma swallows, feeling ill. “Grant…”

The expression on his face stops her before she can even begin, and she reminds herself of what happened the last time she tried to stop him from hurting someone on her behalf—of the mess that turned into.

Then she reminds herself of the guilt she’s carried all these years, of her endless nightmares—of the fact that the extremists, whatever their crimes, are still human beings—and steels herself to try again.

“Grant—”

“No, Jemma,” he interrupts severely. He puts the weight of his power behind the words, and she sees Skye and Coulson flinch.

For herself, the power has the opposite effect. It doesn’t cow her—it infuriates her.

“Don’t _no, Jemma_ me!” she snaps, pushing herself to her feet. “I don’t think it’s so unreasonable to ask for a little mercy, Grant.”

“You don’t have to see it,” he says. “That’s about as far as my mercy reaches.”

“Those are not good men,” she says, rounding the recliners to approach him. “But the vast majority of their crimes were _not_ against me. You’re overreacting.”

“Any crime against you is one too many,” he says, straightening. He gestures pointedly to her face. “They hit you.”

“Yes, I know,” she says impatiently. “I was there.”

“You expect me to forgive that?” he demands. “To forgive the terror you must have felt, to call on me? They scared you enough to break six years of silence. They don’t _deserve_ mercy.”

“I’m not saying they do,” she says. She could argue that _everyone_ deserves mercy, but the words stick in her throat as she thinks of Sati and how she cowered away even as the team was rescuing her. “But I’m asking you to grant it anyway.”

“And I’m saying no,” he counters.

It’s not unexpected. He’s always been unreasonable like this, has always had a tendency to overreact when it comes to her.

Perhaps she can use that. It’s really the only card she has left.

“If you won’t be merciful for their sake,” she says. “Then do it for mine.”

He frowns. “Yours?”

“Do you think there haven’t been times in the last six years that I’ve missed you?” she asks. “Do you think this is the first time I’ve been in peril since then? I have deliberately refrained from calling on you a _hundred_ times because I was afraid of what you would do.”

Grant’s face darkens with displeasure, but he makes no move to interrupt.

“And you said it yourself—you’ve only yourself to blame. I have to live with the weight of what you did every day.” She presses her lips together, struggling for composure. “Please don’t add to my burden.”

Skye and Coulson are both tense in her peripheral vision, albeit in two entirely different ways; Skye’s brow has creased in worry in response to Jemma mentioning fear, while Coulson appears ready to spring into action if Grant becomes violent.

It’s almost sweet—Coulson must know he’d have no chance against Grant, and yet there he is, ready to try anyway.

However, she doesn’t think it will be necessary. Grant’s frown has softened from anger into resignation. She’s getting through to him.

“What would you have me do, then?” he asks.

It’s never a good sign when he falls back on more formal speech patterns, but as long as he’s using his American accent, it’s all right. It’s only when his control is tested enough that he slips back into his own accent—or even his own language—that she worries.

“Let them go,” she says. His eyebrows go up, and she hurries on, “Not all of them!” _That_ would truly be a miracle, and she knows it won’t happen. Best to take what she can get. “But only two of those men even spoke to me directly—the same two that laid hands on me. To them, do…” She swallows. “Do what you feel you must. But let the rest of them go. SHIELD will take them into custody; they’ll still be punished for their crimes, just not as severely.”

Still frowning, he closes what little distance there is between them and frames her face in his hands.

“I _am_ vengeance, Jemma,” he says. “You ask me to go against myself when you ask me to stay my hand.”

“No,” she disagrees. “What I ask is that you not give me another reason to fear you.”

She regrets the words when she sees how hard they hit him, but she doesn’t attempt to take them back. It’s the truth: she fears him just as much as she loves him. It’s that fear which has kept her away from him all these years—though the love, she knows, is what kept _him_ away from _her_.

Whatever else he is, he loves her enough to respect her wishes—to give her the space she asked for, even though he made it clear how much the request upset him.

Using this tactic makes her stomach twist up in knots, but she doesn’t have a choice. It’s the only way to protect the extremists from him. It’s the only way to sleep at night—to know that she’s done her best for the men she brought to Grant’s attention.

After a moment, he sighs and presses a soft kiss to her forehead. It’s apology and forgiveness both, and she leans into it.

“Very well,” he says, hands falling away from her face. “You win.”

“Thank you, Grant.” She hugs him tightly—the first contact she’s initiated today—and feels him smile against her temple as he returns it. “Really.”

“Don’t thank me just yet,” he warns, and the return to his normal speech pattern nearly distracts her from the sudden weight in her chest as her bond to him tightens without warning.

“What—?” she starts to ask. She attempts to step back, out of his arms, but he holds her in place with one hand as the other slides into her hair. “Grant, what are you doing?”

“I gave you your space,” he says, resting his forehead against hers, “For _six years_. I’m not giving you any more.”

“Simmons?” Coulson asks, wary. “Is there a problem?”

She can’t find the breath to answer. Her bond to Grant has been so fragile—tenuous—since the day she nearly destroyed it; she’d forgotten what it’s like when it’s whole. And it wasn’t like this, the first time: their bond was built up over weeks and months, slowly, piece by piece. Returning all at once, it’s nearly too much.

“What are you doing to her?” Skye demands. “Stop it!”

Grant cradles her head against his shoulder to speak to Skye and Coulson. “Just a little bonding. She’s fine.”

The words surround her—she hears his voice in her ears, feels it rumble in his chest, feels the echo of it down the bond—and she fists her hands in his shirt, head spinning. Her knees are so weak that only his support keeps her on her feet; the weight of his power presses down on her like a physical presence as the bond winds tighter and tighter.

“She doesn’t _look_ fine,” Skye snaps. “I don’t care who or what you are, if you don’t let her go _right now_ —”

Her heart pounds painfully in her chest, and the ringing in her ears drowns out the rest of Skye’s words. She doesn’t hear Grant laugh in response, either, though she feels it down to her very core. She squeezes her eyes shut as her vision begins to go black at the edges; for a moment, she’s certain that she’s going to faint, and then—

It stops.

Jemma slumps against Grant’s chest, gasping for breath, as the sensations which so overwhelmed her ebb away. Sound filters in; Coulson is speaking.

“—packing back to Asgard,” he’s saying. She opens her eyes. “So if I were you—”

“It’s all right,” she manages, interrupting him. “There’s no need for threats, sir. I’m fine.”

“Really?” Skye asks, skeptical. “Because the last time I saw you this pale, you were dying.”

“I promise,” she says. “I’m not hurt—or ill. Just a touch overwhelmed.”

“See?” Grant says, rubbing his hand up and down her back. “I told you. It’s cute that you think you can threaten me, though.”

“That was unkind, Grant,” she says, before the others can respond.

“That was necessary,” he corrects. “What’s unkind is spending six years shutting me out while you put your life at risk.” He grips her by the shoulders, steadying, as he leans back to meet her eyes. “You won’t shut me out any longer.”

“I don’t…” She takes a deep breath, willing her heart to slow. “I still need time, Grant.”

His eyes soften, and he hugs her close again.

“You can take all the time you need,” he promises. “But you’ll take it with the bond intact. I won’t let you break it again.”

She doesn’t appreciate his high-handedness (though he’s actually being remarkably restrained, by his standards), but she can’t bring herself to disagree. Now that the effects of the bond settling into place have faded, she’s surprised at how much better she feels.

Reducing the bond to fragments the way she did six years ago left her feeling hollow—bereft. She knew that, was keenly aware of its fractured state, but not until this moment—with the bond restored—did she realize how _much_ it affected her. Like the memory of pain, her knowledge of what it was to be whole obviously faded over the years.

So she’ll forgive him this…but _only_ this.

“Fine,” she says. “The bond can stay. But we’re going to talk about you doing that without my permission.”

He laughs and drops a quick kiss to her hair. “I’ll look forward to it. For the moment, though…”

He squeezes her once, then steps back, and she feels a surprising amount of reluctance as she lets him go. Or perhaps not so surprising; whatever else is between them, physical contact has always been simple and lovely.

She has missed him, these past six years. She’s missed him very, very much.

“You’ll find your…” He flicks a glance at Skye. “ _Bad guys_ outside. They’re restrained, but mostly in one piece.” He smiles. “The two who touched Jemma, of course, will not be returned to you. Ever.”

She holds back a shiver at the words, and then starts as Skye suddenly appears at her elbow. Jemma leans against her, grateful, as her head swims again. She can feel Grant’s power building in her chest as he prepares to leave, and it’s dizzying.

(It didn’t always affect her this way. Before—before everything—his major acts of power used to leave her breathless in an entirely different, entirely _pleasant_ way. There was something almost sexual about it, about the way it played along her nerves. She suspects that, with the bond restored, it will do so again soon enough.)

“Jemma,” he says, and she opens her eyes to meet his. They’re soft with affection and apology and…something she’d almost call _longing_. “I’ll see you soon.”

There’s a question in the words, and she realizes—with affection of her own—that he’s leaving it up to her. Even with the bond restored, he’ll continue to abide by her demand for distance, if she asks.

She probably should. He may have released most of the extremists, but only because she emotionally blackmailed him into it. And what the two he’s keeping will suffer…

“Yes,” she says, shoving doubt aside. She does love him, despite everything, and now that she’s seen him again, she can’t imagine going another six years without him. She needs time, yes, but…not much. She’s tired of closing herself off from him, of denying herself his presence and his love. “You will.”

His smile warms her. “Good. And as for the two of you…” He looks from Skye to Coulson, who’s come to stand on Jemma’s other side, and back again. “You’d be wise to take good care of my wife.”

With that, he disappears, leaving the three of them in very uncomfortable silence.

At least for the ten seconds it takes Skye to recover. “Wife?!”

Oh, yes. He is _definitely_ going to pay for what he's done today.


End file.
